Spice
by Besina
Summary: So much for adding spice... Five times things went extraordinarily badly for our boys, and one time it didn't.
1. Lights, Camera

Author's Notes: This chapter starts out looking dark, stay with it, it's not as bad as it seems.

* * *

"God, Sherlock, NO! No! Please!" John begged from his position in the middle of the sitting room floor.

He was kneeling - a long, thin-fingered hand holding onto the back of his neck pushed his face into the floor; his hands were bound up behind his back with his belt, and his denims and pants pushed down his legs to his knees.

Sherlock was behind him, leaning half over him to keep him in place, while deftly unbuttoning and unzipping his own trousers with his free hand to extract his stiffening cock. John squirmed unproductively as Sherlock simply pressed him further into the floor.

John ran through the scenario in his head:

They'd come home from a case, as usual, but as soon as the door had closed behind them, Sherlock had been on him, pulling him in with a passionate, dominant, shocking and completely unexpected kiss. When he'd tried to pull away, it had resulted in more drastic moves, a scuffle, and then, somehow... _this_.

"Sherlock! NO!" He sounded utterly panicked.

"Shut up, John," the baritone voice poured over him. A wry smile flitted over the detective's lips before he continued, "You're mine, and I do what I like with things that are mine, do you understand?"

Not waiting for a response he leaned further over John, his breath wafting over the doctor's ear, his newly-freed cock rutting up against his captive's arse. "Do you know what I'm going to do, John?" he whispered.

John keened.

"I'm going to take my engorged, stiff, sex rod and stuff it up your virgin hole. Whereupon I'm going to engage in feverishly-hot, friction-inducing rutting until I squirt my love juice deep inside your beautiful, cock-calling bum. You'll be screaming my name by the time I'm done."

There was a long, stretched out silence, whereupon John forgot to struggle and Sherlock just seemed to be waiting...

There was a snort, John sputtering, then gasping, "Sex rod? Love juice?!" as he fell over sideways, Sherlock's grip on him compromised by his own grinning like a loon and deep, resonating laughter.

"Sherlock!" he complained, still caught in his own chuckling spree, "You weren't supposed to _ruin_ it!"

"Couldn't help it! The situation was begging for it. Seriously John, I cannot imagine myself doing that to you."

"Why not?" asked John, calming just a little from his fit of the giggles. "It's not too unlike our normal play, just a bit rougher... with some dialogue... and a little bit of bondage..."

"_And_ a video camera," Sherlock motioned to the tripod, artfully set up in the kitchen doorway, "But even if I played it the way you want, I'd still feel like I was in a bad film."

"Fine, turn the damn thing off. _Then_ can we have some fun?" John began unwinding the belt from his wrists.

There was a screech of tyres coming to a stop outside and the sound of several slamming doors.

"Oh hell," muttered Sherlock.

"What?"

"Remember how you wanted to start this with us coming in the door?"

"Yes."

"I forgot Mycroft rewired the camera in the sitting room - I disabled the sound yesterday, before I got the call from Lestrade - I forgot all about it."

A door shattered downstairs as heavy feet thudded up toward them.

John just looked at him gape-mouthed, forgetting to pull up his trousers.

"Oh, this is about to be embarrassing." The detective managed to turn his back to the door and plot out a clear landing space for himself before their own door shattered and he crumpled to the floor with a tranquillizer dart lodged in his shoulder.


	2. Doctor, Doctor

"I fucking_ hate_ you!"

"Noted."

John fumed in utter silence.

"Speculum."

John handed it grudgingly over. He fumed some more.

"I mean, of all the times to experiment!" he complained.

"I've said I'm sorry. Concentrating. We can talk about this later."

"I don't know. _Now_ seems like a _pretty good time_ to me!"

"Shush. Forceps."

John was tempted to throw them at his flatmate's head. He was professional and handed them instead.

"You know, you could just put the tray next to you. Then you could just, oh, grab what you needed. You don't always have to have me hand everything to you."

"While I appreciate your plan to simplify things, it could go very badly if I lost sight of what I was doing."

John sniffed and squirmed uncomfortably. "Fine."

"Even if I do like you handing me things."

"I knew it!

...

"Ponce.

...

"I mean, _what the hell did you think you were doing?!"_

_"DON'T BUMP ME!"_ Sherlock yelled.

"Sorry...

(there was a bit of a wait)

"How's it coming?" John inquired, a bit more cautiously.

"Nearly there... Got it!"

John blew a sigh of relief out as Sherlock extracted the top half of a large, long, black, silicone dildo from his blogger's nether regions.

"Move. I want to put my feet down."

Sherlock scooted back from the side of the bed and John lowered his legs from his partner's shoulders as Sherlock switched off the high-powered light he'd been using.

"Now seriously, _what_ were you thinking?"

"It was an experiment!"

"I know, that's what you keep saying, but what man in his right mind supercools a dildo in liquid nitrogen one day and uses it on his partner the next?!"

"It's not as though I shattered it John, it should have gone back to its original state."

"Sherlock,_ you __**especially**_should know that doing something like that would molecularly alter it somehow - definitely make it more likely to ... _oh, I don't know_... BREAK OFF halfway through an anal pounding?"

"I'm sorry. We got it out."

There was more silence from John.

"It won't happen again."

"Damn straight."

"If _that_ had been the case, then _this_ wouldn't have been the problem," Sherlock agreed, motioning to the broken toy.

John hit him.


	3. The Cover Up

"Sherlock?" the naked John queried.

"Sherlock? ... _Sherlock!"_ he had to ask somewhat louder as Sherlock seemed quite focused on his task at hand - namely sucking his captive's cock, while said captive was tethered to a tree.

"Mm?" Came the satisfied mumble of inquiry as Sherlock sucked him back down his throat, causing John's eyes to slip closed, a moan to escape his lips, and his head to loll backward and hit the slender tree his hands had been handcuffed behind, before Sherlock had begun to slowly take him apart; gradually stripping him, kissing him deeply, paying special attention to that certain area of his neck, running his hands and fingers all over his chest and nipples, and taking time to elicit many moans and pleas from the doctor before finally dropping lower and beginning to drive the man to distraction with his tongue.

They'd just finished a case early that morning in West Sussex, and being deprived of anything else to do, Sherlock had taken it into his head to sneak the both of them onto the grounds of the Wakehurst estate and into the Bluebell Wood to handcuff his wayward doctor's wrists behind a young but solid tree and have a little fun outside.

The morning sun had just risen when they'd gotten there, and they'd had two hours before the estate was due to open. The slow tease had taken perhaps an hour of that time so far, but they still had plenty of time left before they had to worry. It was pleasant, freeing, and more than a little bit exciting to be doing this outside, even if their chance of being seen was virtually nil.

"What's that buzzing sound?"

"Wha bzzng soud?" came the mouthful of reply.

"Just listen for a moment."

Sherlock harrumphed around the pleasantly stiff cock currently filling his mouth, but stilled for a moment and listened.

"Juf da beefz, I 'magine." He returned to his work with vigour.

John huffed out another moan before the answer fully sank in, whereupon his eyes widened and he began thrashing wildly, the cuffs cutting into his wrists barely slowing him down; the tree wavered precariously.

Sherlock, now sans-mouthful due to John's sudden panic, stood up, trying to calm the man with a hand on his shoulder, eyes full of anxious concern.

"John? John! Stop! What's wrong?"

"Bees! _BEES_ Sherlock! I'm fucking _deathly allergic_ to bees!"

Sherlock took this information in, and attempted to calm John down, saying, "Then stop thrashing for gods' sake! The beehive is just up..."

Then they both watched, horrified, as said hive detached from the swaying limb and began its descent to the ground.

Almost in slow-motion, Sherlock ducked, swooped up the greatcoat he'd been kneeling on and wrapped it around both himself, and flattening himself against John, John as well, attempting as best he could to hold it closed behind the doctor.

The hive smacked into the ground not five feet away at just the same time.

John held his breath as seconds later the area was swarming with alarmed and angry bees, Sherlock's body was pressed against his, his coat covering every area his body could not as the insects looked for, and settled on a target to blame.

Moments went by in which Sherlock occasionally winced as a stinger found its way home, but John, luckily, remained untouched.

When the immediate mind-blanking fear had worn off, John hissed in Sherlock's ear, "Keys, Sherlock, get out the goddamn keys and unlock the handcuffs!"

"Can't," came the simple reply as Sherlock winced again.

"Why not?" hissed the doctor in reply.

"They fell out when I jerked my coat up from the ground - they're buried in these godawful bluebells somewhere. If I attempt to retrieve them now, you'll be stung to death."

John attempted, but failed, to get his breathing under control. He leaned into Sherlock's shoulder as the man pulled his scarf over John's face, hoping both for coverage and to allay any passing out John's hyperventilating might cause.

Neither of them knew for certain how long the assault lasted, though it seemed like every two minutes Sherlock was asking if John had been stung - he hadn't - yet. But eventually the bees, apparently satisfied with their defence of the hive, slowly left.

Sherlock cautiously lowered and peeked over the collar of the coat to ascertain if the coast was clear. As soon as he deemed it was, he dropped it to the ground, leaving John starkers and unable to move, while he slowly moved through the flowers on hands and knees, hoping not to re-rile the bees while he searched for the keys.

Unfortunately, time had flown and Sherlock, though he had just raised up with a triumphant "Found them!" was not in time to save the first sight-seers on the property from an eyeful of John, who was now previously-unknown shades of red.

The two older ladies simply stood agape as John tried to modestly cross his legs, leaned back against the tree, nodded at them and greeted them with a forced, cheerful, "Morning!" and an incline of his head, then quickly looked elsewhere as if enjoying the scenery, and nothing on earth could be more natural than this.

Sherlock fumbled a bit with the key, his hands swelling a little for all the stings they had incurred in holding the coat shut behind John, but he managed to unlock the cuffs, let them fall where they may, and quickly bundled John into the greatcoat before grabbing his hand and running as fast as possible for the treeline.


	4. The Dying Detective

"Oh god, I'm dying!" Sherlock rolled up into a little ball, tears running from the corners of his eyes.

John held onto his hand and gently tried to unroll the knot that was previously Sherlock.

"You're going to be okay, Sherlock, let me see."

"Mycroft will avenge me..." came the hoarse whisper.

"I doubt that will be necessary. I know it hurts..."

Sherlock simply turned his head and glared at him with a disbelieving look.

"Okay, it hurts _a lot _and I'm sorry!"

"You've killed me, John!"

"It's not exactly _all _my fault, you know!"

There was a deadly silence accompanied by a deadly glare, which broke off when it was determined more groaning was called for.

"I was already going pretty fast!

_*Glare*_

"You're the one who wanted me to ride you, I was doing fine!

_*More glaring*_

"I'm not the one who yelled 'Giddyup, John! Faster!'

Sherlock whimpered.

"Then as I was already nearly all the way up, hit me in the arse _with a riding crop!"_

_"..."_

"I _didn't expect_ that Sherlock! Of course I was going to jump!

"..."

"and come down wrong...

John gulped and lowered his eyes.

"I _am_ sorry."

There was a long silence.

"You've broken it." Sherlock whispered, sounding more miserable than he had in a lifetime.

John tilted his head to the side and gave him a _look_.

"I didn't break it, Sherlock.

"There wasn't a snap...

"There's no bruising...

"Or swelling...

"It's more like you just got inadvertently hit in the groin. You'll live."

Sherlock groaned again and rolled over to his other side. "Tell my mother she was adequate."

"I'll get you an ice pack."

"Let Mrs Hudson bake for the memorial; don't invite Anderson."

"You're overreacting."

"Donate my corpse to the Body Farm."

"You really want to make me feel bad, don't you? I already _do_, you know."

"You could always feel worse."

John quickly scooted out the door to fetch some paracetamol and frozen peas - and a bottle of whiskey for himself - it was going to be a looong night.

* * *

**Notes:**

Don't know what a Body Farm is? They're fascinating yet truly disgusting places. Look it up on Wikipedia (I'd put a link here, but FF does not like links, apparently.)

I imagine Sherlock would like the one at the Freeman Ranch, it's the largest and most prestigious, after all.


	5. Holidays and Headboards

"Bit rustic isn't it?" John held up the lantern he'd found on the kitchen worktop, near the door, and had only just lit.

"I thought you'd like rustic. It's a nice cabin, even if it is without electricity."

"Are you sure you'll be able to manage without your technology?"

Sherlock scoffed at the idea. "It's only for a day or two, and I'm _sure_ we can figure out ways to amuse ourselves while you de-stress for a while."

"A weekend holiday _is_ nice, thank you, Sherlock." John beamed at his detective, but the light was so low he doubted it could be seen. "Well, since it's dark already, there's no television or radio, and phones and computers won't get reception even if their batteries hold out... whatever shall we do?" John teased.

Sherlock pushed the kitchen door closed behind them, making sure it was latched then, grabbing two fistfuls of jumper, directed John unerringly into the small bedroom, blowing out the lantern and kicking the door shut behind them before pouncing on his doctor.

...

"How could you have _not _noticed?" Sherlock sputtered.

"In my defence, the lights _were_ out - it was pitch-black in there!"

"That's not an excuse. You had to have noticed that I was suddenly much more pliable."

"I did - and it just spurred me on even more - it seemed like a 'Take me any way you like, John' invitation, and lord knows, I don't get many of those! Besides which, _you _are the one who told me to fuck you through the headboard!"

"I didn't mean it literally!"

"No, but without the extra force you demanded, we wouldn't have ended up hitting your head."

"Don't you mean: with you driving me into the headboard like a bulldozer and knocking me unconscious?"

"Hey! I stopped and took care of you as soon as I knew what happened!"

"Which wasn't until _after_ you had finished!"

"I still thought you were doing that I'll-just-lay-here-while-you-ravish-me thing!"

"I hope for your sake I never die while we're shagging."

There was a long moment as this thought sunk in, then John quickly paled and sprang up, fumbling to get to the bathroom before he was ill, while Sherlock lay there smirking triumphantly in his retribution, headache notwithstanding.


	6. Boxed In

Chapter Text

* * *

John and Sherlock were in the middle of what could amicably be called 'taking a break'. Each was miffed as they'd both said some horrendous things, and neither felt particularly up to apologising for their role in the dust-up, or for completely forgiving the other just yet. As things normally played out in this situation, they had about a week to go before either of them would feel up to it. Until then, things were strictly platonic and businesslike between them. Which was fine. More than fine. By both of them. (A rather childish 'so there' was probably also thought by each of them, though luckily neither gave voice to it.)

Their latest case involved tracking international smugglers, and rather than simply _tracking_ them, Sherlock had taken it into his head to sneak aboard with the contraband shipment, having gotten himself and John nailed inside a wooden shipping crate. The only one he could find on short notice was just large enough to house both of them, standing up. Just to be on the safe side, he'd made sure a "This End Up" had been stencilled on, pointing upward; going one further, Lestrade had even slapped a "Fragile" sticker on it before they'd positioned it outside the truck, alongside the other crates to be loaded, earlier that morning.

"Just _why_ are we doing this again?" John hissed in his ear - not a far stretch as they were already standing face-to-face.

"It's more fun," grinned Sherlock, then sobering a little, added, "and I've got a tracker on me, so Lestrade can find us if the shipment is detoured for any reason, particularly if the perpetrators think someone's onto them. Not only that, but it's much more likely that we'll be able to hear something incriminating which could potentially lead us to even more of their lot. This is just the beginning." Sherlock tried to motion around to indicate their surroundings, but it was far too cramped to move.

The one consideration both of them had overlooked was that shippers often take no notice of things like 'Fragile', 'Handle With Care', and 'This End Up' - in fact, the only one they ever take seriously is the one that says 'Bio-hazard'. As a result, they were loaded and the box tipped to lay on its side, tumbling Sherlock roughly on top of John, as both tried to choke down the "oomph" that was blown out of them from the impact. Still, they were within earshot of the smugglers, which was exactly where Sherlock wanted to be, even if not in the ideal position.

"John," Sherlock growled softly, "Your hand."

His hand had, rather unfortunately, gotten wedged between them as he flexed to try to catch Sherlock as he tumbled onto him. He hadn't had much luck or mobility, and now his hand was cupping Sherlock's crotch.

John tried unsuccessfully to wriggle it away. "Sorry, Sherlock, can't be helped," he all but shrugged.

Given some minutes and extra manoeuvring from Sherlock, they did finally manage to wiggle his hand out from between them but as soon as they had, John moaned, "Oh god, that's not any better," as now they were pressed groin-to-groin, and he wasn't the only one who had found all that wriggling somewhat arousing; they were both now semi-hard.

A couple of guards entered the back of the truck, sitting down on crates that sounded as if they were only a dozen feet away, and the rear gate was pulled down behind them. Moments later, the engine started up and the truck lurched into motion, unintentionally causing the two of them to slide against one another.

John stifled a groan by biting his lower lip, and though Sherlock was quiet, if there'd been any light left to see by, one would have been able to tell he was flushed and panting as shallowly as he could manage.

Conversation betwixt the guards started up, but was nowhere near what Sherlock had wanted, instead, focusing on families, girlfriends, and plans for the holidays, rather than names and addresses of co-conspirators. Damn it all to hell. Well, maybe if they made it all the way to their destination, some of the higher-ups would be around to eavesdrop on. One could hope.

The driver of the truck was anything but gentle, and after a few more bumps and hurried corners, Sherlock caved, lowering his head to suck on John's neck, who had to stifle a cry at both the surprise and the sensation.

"Sherlock!" he moaned as quietly as possible. At least the guards had started chatting more loudly and raucously to hear each other over the road noise, and Sherlock thoroughly expected a flask had been produced somewhere along the way, so there was a _little_ cover noise and distraction going on, even if not much.

"John..." he merely growled back, voice an octave deeper and much more dangerous-sounding than normal. It was pure sex and it got to John each and every time he heard it.

"I'm still mad at you," he tried.

"And I at you. Doesn't mean I don't want to shag you senseless."

If he'd been standing, he'd have gone weak at the knees. "They're _right outside,_" he hissed in return.

"Best be quiet then." He could feel Sherlock smiling against his neck as he sucked a new bruise into it.

John groaned. This shouldn't be such a turn on. Then Sherlock gave a minute thrust of his hips and every objection he could think of was suddenly on a trip very like a certain abusive CIA agent had taken, five times.

John pitched in the towel and found Sherlock's own neck with his teeth, softly nibbling at it, as he ground his hips upward.

They had long ago found out that danger-sex could be quite arousing, but somewhat-angry-danger-sex-in-enforced-restriction was proving even better as both worked to make the other struggle to stay silent. Just as they'd both frotted enough to tumble to a conclusion, each anxious about the potential noise they were about to make, willing or not, the truck hit the spike strip rolled out by the NSY, and the resulting blow-out and shifting and tumbling of cargo around the back of the enclosure was enough to mask the gasping and groaning that arose as both of them shuddered their way though a fantastic orgasm.

Sherlock lay limply on top of John, both panting and glowing a little from exertion, and thoroughly spent, though fully clothed. _That _was going to chafe come morning.

The officers were presumably detaining and arresting those involved, and there was a brief scuffle with the guards as the back gate of the vehicle was thrown open. Quite a few crates had toppled across theirs when the tyres went, so they had some time on their hands before anyone would think to dig them out.

Sherlock nuzzled beneath John's ear. "I'm sorry," he said.

John instinctively pulled his head back, even though there was no place for it to go back _to, _in order to peer cautiously at his friend, even though it was pitch-black. Habit was habit, after all. "What for?" he asked curiously.

"For whatever I said. For the argument."

"You seriously don't know, do you?"

"I have a guess? Maybe. But no, I'm not certain," came the confession.

"Well, that's better than before, I suppose. You didn't used to even have a guess."

"Well?" came the inquiry.

"Well what?"

"Aren't you sorry too?"

"Sure, a bit. I'll be more sorry once you can tell me what it was that pissed me off so much."

Crates were now being hefted out of the cargo area. The police were getting closer to unearthing them.

"I'll tell you what," Sherlock murmured once more, "_You _tell me what I did, once we're home, while I suck you off. And I'm _quite_ determined to make you unable to recall anything while I'm at it." And _oof!,_ the sexy growl was back.

John suddenly found it hard to breathe, and not just because he had a hundred-and-eighty pounds of Sherlock resting on top of him. His friend could be utterly single-minded about anything he put his head to, and John had no doubt he could drag him into such realms of pleasure that he'd forget his own name, if the man so chose.

He gulped quietly, "Sure, sure, that sounds... great!" He'd barely managed to get the flush from his cheeks by the time their crate was unburied and cracked open.

Sticking around only long enough to assure Lestrade nothing new had been gleaned and that they'd be at the station first thing tomorrow, John nearly dragged Sherlock to the first cab they came to, stuffing him inside for one of the quickest rides home they'd ever had. And it hardly mattered that for years afterwards, both of them had a Pavlovian response to closets, or any tight quarters, for that matter. It made some stakeouts quite a bit more difficult, but some things were _totally_ worth it!


End file.
